


Hope Is Fucking Useless

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Car Accidents, Coma, M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:20:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've learned, though, that hope doesn't fucking matter. <br/>Hope isn't going to bring John Egbert back into your life. <br/>Hope isn't going to wake him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope Is Fucking Useless

**Author's Note:**

> where the fuck did this come from the world may never know  
> it isn't even all that gr8 omg why the hell am i posting this at all

I am Dave Strider, and I’d like to give my boyfriend a call. It was kind of a given at that time of the evening; if I called any later, I’d still be awake at four. Two or three is much more reasonable. At least, that’s what I say when he tells me that he is about to help his father cook dinner or something, and if I’d only called forty-five minutes later, maybe an hour, he’d be able to chat without being so rude as being on the phone in the presence of his father. ‘Course, I could practically hear the smile that stretches his lips as he spoke. He was always happy I called, rather than just talk to him on that stupid Pesterchum app. He thought it’s ridiculous that the two of us could talk every single night for hours and hours and hours, but whenever he remarked upon it I am certain that he was actually just grateful that I’ve put up with him for that long. Hell, I didn’t know how _he_ could stand _me,_ what with my stupid extended metaphors and my obvious lack of empathy. But he did, and it was wonderful.

            I hoped that he thought so, too.

            I’m sure he did.

            His number was on speed dial 1. By that point I didn’t even need to look to unlock it, tap one, and hold the phone to my ear. I’d done it so many times; it’s hard-wired into my brain. It buzzed in my ear once, twice, three times before there was an answer.

            “Dave! I’m kind of in the car right now, driving and all that, kind of a new thing, call me back in a bit?”

            I fell back onto the bed with a loud groan that I was sure he could hear. “But John,” I whined, dragging out the vowel in his name. “It’s gonna be so late for me, with all this time zone shit!”

            “I know, but really, I’m nervous enough as is, and I’m almost home, so—”

            I heaved a sigh. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll call back in like, half an hour.”

            “Thanks, dear,” he said. I heard that smile again. “Talk in a bi— _FUCK!”_

Suddenly I heard many things at once. Tires screeching. John cursing, and then panting, and then screaming. Metal crashing against metal against metal. Static. Static. Static.

            “John!” I yelled into the phone. My pulse was pounding in my ears and I was shaking. “John! John, oh God, Egbert, please tell me you’re there! John!”

            There was a scratching sort of sound and it hurt my ear, and then I heard quick, shallow pants. “D-Dave.”

            “John! John, tell me you’re okay!”

            “I’m okay,” he muttered. I knew better.

            “Are you lying?”

            “Yeah.” It was more of a release of breath than it was a word.

            “Jesus, John, I’m so sorry, this is my fault, I can’t believe this, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Tears stung at my eyes, and my voice quaked. My blood was running cold. The room was hot but I was shivering.

            “No,” he protested weakly. “It isn’t. B-but… Dave, I love you.”

            That almost always made me smile. This time, I forced back a sob. “Yeah. I know. I love you too, John, just hold on, please.”

            A clatter.

            He’d dropped the phone.

            “Damnit!” I threw my phone across the room and it hit the wall, bounced off it, hit the floor. The walls seemed to be pressing in on me, and I got to my feet and climbed to the roof. It was empty. All I could see where the roofs of the other buildings. No life. Just cement. I fell to my knees, tipped my face to the hazy orange sky, cried out to no one.

            A hand dropped onto my shoulder. I turned. My bro was there, emotionless as always, and he nodded to the left. His stupid-ass rocket board that he always flew away on after strifes was there, and it was obvious he’d heard the conversation. I swallowed. Damn, even after years of this guy beating me to a pulp, he was still the person I’d always aspire to be. He grabbed it from the ground and handed it to me without a word, then headed back downstairs.

            It was a good 2,200 miles or so from Houston to Maple Valley. That’d be over half a day on that thing. But I dove off the roof anyway.

<> 

            “I’m his boyfriend!” I snapped at the nurse. She pursed her lips, and the hand that I’d slammed on the counter a few moments ago balled into a fist. “Please, damnit,” I hissed, “Just let me see him.”

            She sighed, then said, “You have about an hour before visitors have to leave,” and pointed me down the hall to his room. I paused at the door and swallowed tightly. Do I really want to see him like this? For the first time, in a hospital bed, face only bruises and scratches?

            I stepped in.

            _A coma._

<> 

            “And I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you say, running a hand across your head and mussing up your hair. You take off your shades and rub your eyes. It’s your tenth day in Washington and you’d stayed at John’s side literally as often as the hospital allowed, arriving ten minutes before visiting began and leaving only when they told you that really, sir, you have to go, you aren’t allowed to stay any longer, just come back tomorrow.

            “Maybe to see what’d happen if I told you about my pain. Maybe to see if… if I told you about it, maybe it’d be your pain, too. That it’d wake you up.” You glance at the monitor. The beeps have remained steady all throughout, and where his cheeks are dry yours are damp with tears. “But you’re not gonna wake up, are you, John?”

            There isn’t a response.

            Not even a finger twitch.

            You didn’t expect there to be, really.

            You had hoped.

            You’ve learned, though, that hope doesn’t fucking matter.

            Hope isn’t going to bring John Egbert back into your life.

            Hope isn’t going to wake him up, isn’t going to make him hug you, kiss you, murmur ‘I love you’ over and over and over until his voice gives out and he just holds you.

            Hope is fucking useless.

            With every word that you’ve said to this almost-corpse, that stupid thing has been fading from you and now, now it’s just gone, it’s gone and you don’t know what to do without it, without him.

            You know that trying to forget him would be pathetic. That doesn’t mean that you almost want to. Sometimes, sitting here in this robin’s egg blue room, you want nothing more than to forget all about John Egbert, all his dorky movies and his affectionate little names for you. You want to wipe it clear from your memory and just walk out of this damned building, but that’d be impossible and you know it.

            It’s worse than knowing that he isn’t going to wake up.

            Ever.

            He’s about the equivalent of a ragdoll.

            _And it’s your fault._


End file.
